


Brave New World

by DashingInAStraightjacket



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Druids, Dystopia, Magic, Multi, well sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DashingInAStraightjacket/pseuds/DashingInAStraightjacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a modern, slightly dystopic AU, magic has always been a fact of life. Some people are born with it, some aren't, but magic has always been a prominent part of life regardless of which you are. </p><p>However, when Chancellor Michel Rene came into power, life changed dramatically for everyone, magic user or not. Provocative art was banned, as were music and games that encouraged disorder or violence. A curfew was established, and stricter controls on media came into play. And, of course, all magic was banned under pain of death. The chancellor's Special Service were sent to hunt down any magic users, and it resulted in a mass genocide. A few magic users remain in hiding, and no one knows what happened to the untrained children who were kidnapped by the chancellor's forces. </p><p>Les Amis are an activist group who risk life and limb trying to help people in trouble with the new laws, and of course criticism of the new government is not allowed. How will their group hold together as it turns out some of them have been keeping secrets?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave New World

**Author's Note:**

> School is starting soon, but I'm hoping to keep this going on a pretty regular basis, hopefully once a week or so another chapter. As always comments and kudos are accepted with love.

_France, June 2004_

Everything changed after the Accords. Magic, previously a rare and coveted gift, celebrated in those few born with it, was outlawed. Millions of people, registered magic users, were killed; too dangerous, the Chancellor said, to be contained. Some went into hiding, but before this, registration had been a good thing, common – technically voluntary, but never forgone, not really. After all, the government sponsored training for registered magic users; free education, and lessons from older mages and druids and witches and all sorts of other magic users on how to control their gifts. So there weren’t many who could hide, and those who tried were hunted like animals, never allowed to stop or rest for fear of being discovered.

Alexandre had been a druid, long ago. They were a nomadic people, and all of their children were born with the Gift. They kept mainly to themselves, and weren’t often registered, but were well known for being open to visitors, always willing to lend a hand if you needed a tire changed on a gravel road, or a place to take shelter in a storm. They traded in stories and songs, in exchange for this hospitality, and they valued these things above all others. When the Accords came into being, the druids weren’t unaware, but they were still taken by surprise, somehow, when the Chancellor’s Special Police came for them, destroying their makeshift camps, taking the untrained children and killing the rest right there. Before long, the sites of these massacres would become places people feared to go. There would forever be an unsettling feeling to the places where so many innocents had died.

Alexandre had been a child. Trained enough to be the sort the Special Police would want dead, but a child nonetheless. He couldn’t remember, now, how old he’d been when they’d come for his camp. His mother had sent him to gather firewood. He’d dallied, sulking because he’d been playing with his friends and he hadn’t wanted to go. He remembered he’d been far away, climbing a tree, when he heard the shouts, the sounds of gunfire, screams, and after what felt like a horrifying eternity, silence. A kind of silence Alexandre was unaccustomed to, because the Druids had always been connected. Alexandre, despite being miles away, knew immediately that his tribe was dead. He couldn’t feel them anymore, his mother, his father, his friends, his cousins, all gone. During the attack, he’d fallen from his tree, clutching his head, screaming his little heart out, but now, even he was silent, except for his ragged breaths, quickly turning to sobs.

It was dark by the time he pulled himself up from the ground, ignoring the bundles of wood on the ground and stumbling back to camp. He stood at the edge of it before long, staring at what had been his home. There were bodies strewn everywhere, some already burning, the colourful tents left smoldering in the darkness. There was smoke and dirt everywhere, and some of it was still on fire even now, remnants of the small strings of flags they’d hung on the trees still hanging limp. It was then that Alexandre, bruised from his fall, and a gaping hole where his connection to his family had been, finally cried, not the dry sobs he’d had before, but true, silent tears. He was alone.

 

_Paris, December 2016_

Grantaire watched the clock, counting the seconds passing by. The clock struck 4, and he immediately walked from the counter of the coffee shop where he worked to the staff room, discarding his apron and changing quickly into jeans, pulling a jacket on over his uniform shirt. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for the meeting, and Enjolras was counting on those fliers he’d promised he’d do, like the idiot sap that he was. As it was, he made it through the doors just in time, garnering only a warning look from the man in question. Grantaire just waved, and seated himself at the back of the room, with Joly. His fliers were tucked in his backpack, and he set it on the table with a sigh.  
“It’s getting cold out,” he commented as the meeting began, and Joly nodded.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” he fretted. “I sneezed twice this morning, and there’s this rash on my back – make sure I get you to check it before you go, R, I can’t see it very well myself, and Bossuet says it’s nothing but you know how he is.”

Grantaire smiled. “Of course, Joly.” Joly was a bit paranoid when it came to such things, always concerned that he was suffering from some illness or other, but Grantaire would reassure him, if it would make his friend feel better.

Their whispering had gotten the attention of Enjolras, and he silenced them both with a glare, before beginning a discussion on the next rally – raising awareness for the children who had been taken, and never seen again, during the raids. What did the government do with the untrained magical children? No one knew, there was no information, only that they disappeared, and it was an issue that Enjolras felt strongly about – understandably, since there was a rumour that he’d had a sister who had been taken in just that way.

Grantaire, for now, anyways, went quiet, listening to the enthusiastic chatter around him. He reached for the bottle he kept in his bag, taking a long drink. They were going to get themselves killed, these people – his friends. One of these days, they’d all be accused of witchcraft and either burned or hanged for it, or just shot down at a rally, though Grantaire suspected the Chancellor would want to make an example of Enjolras, at least, and probably his lieutenants, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He took another drink as he thought about it, practically able to see it now, crimson blood spilling the streets, his friends’ eyes cold and glassy…

He hadn’t realized he’d zoned out, or that Enjolras had addressed him, until Joly nudged him and he startled, back to himself, seeing the café Musain again. “Sorry-“

“Fliers,” Joly whispered to him, seeing that Grantaire had no clue what was going on.

Enjolras looked irritated, and Grantaire turned red and fumbled in his bag for the designs, getting up to press them into Enjolras’ hands. “Yeah, I did them,” he muttered.

“Why do you come if you aren’t going to pay attention?” Enjolras asked irritably, and Grantaire just felt more shame rise as he shrugged, not offering an answer.

Enjolras sighed, and carried on with the meeting, but he cast Grantaire a disappointed look that made Grantaire feel like dirt. That was worse than Enjolras’ anger – he often provoked that on purpose. Disappointment was a whole other beast. He remained quiet for the rest of the meeting. He’d been working on that – not provoking Enjolras so much. It was difficult, sometimes, when he felt the desire to draw some of that attention to himself, or, more often, when he watched Enjolras speak so passionately about something he could never change, and he wanted nothing more than to persuade him to stop, before he got himself and everyone else here killed.

Grantaire wondered momentarily where he would stand when it happened, as it inevitably would. Would he be there, standing proudly amongst his friends as they were mowed down? Would he run in shame, like the coward he knew he was at heart? Would he be at home, hungover and miserable, leaving them to face their fate without him? Would Enjolras die disappointed in Grantaire? Would they all die wondering why he hadn’t come?

No.

They wouldn’t even miss him, realistically, he thought drearily. He only brought them down. But still, he couldn’t bear the thought of his friends dying, leaving him the sole survivor. He might be a coward, but he wouldn’t abandon them, surely.

The meeting ended. Grantaire hadn’t heard a word, and he moved like a ghost to the bar, ordering the strongest whiskey they served, barely looking up when Joly sat beside him.

“What troubles you, friend?” he asked with concern.

Grantaire almost laughed. “What troubles me?” He paused. “Do you really believe he can do it? The ten of us against the government, it seems impossible, but you all follow him anyways. What makes you believe?”

Another might have told him off for talking that way, but Joly genuinely considered his answer, which was one of the things Grantaire loved about him. “I think… Well, it comes to two things, doesn’t it? Either the people rise, and we win, or they don’t, and we die, but… either way, it’s worth it, don’t you think? There are so many people who live in fear, because of something they were born with, so many people have lost someone… And I think, even if we do die, it won’t be for nothing. More will rise to take our place, even if they’re not ready to rise right now.”

That seemed like dangerous logic to Grantaire. “And if they see you massacred, and they’re afraid? What if your death only makes them less likely to try, because it’s already failed once?”

“I have faith in the people,” Joly answered with a shrug. “I have to, because that’s who we’re fighting for.”

Grantaire wasn’t satisfied, but he let it go with a sigh.

“What brings this on?” Joly asked with a small frown, leaning onto the bar.

“Just… thinking morbid thoughts today, I suppose. To the melancholia,” he raised his glass sardonically.

“Cheer up, my friend,’ Joly clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not worry about it now; why don’t you join us for a drink or two, Lesgle wants to go dancing tonight anyways,” he suggested, and Grantaire, always eager to get out and let go of his mind a little, nodded.

“Yes. I’ll change into something better and meet you there,” he agreed gratefully. It was much more fun to get drunk with friends than to get drunk alone in his apartment. He finished his drink, and both men stood. Grantaire was heading for the door when Enjolras stopped him.

“Yes?” Grantaire looked at Enjolras somewhat warily.

“Your fliers.”

“Oh,” Grantaire nodded with some relief. “Yeah, will they do?”

“They’re excellent. I just wanted to thank you,” Enjolras said, one of his rare smiles landing on Grantaire, and he felt stunned. If drawings made Enjolras look at him like that, he’d have to draw more things for him.

“Oh, uh, anytime,” he fumbled through his response. “I’m glad they’re alright.” This was awkward. They spent so much time arguing Grantaire didn’t really know how to just talk to Enjolras. It looked like Enjolras felt the same, too, and they stood in silence for a long, awkward few seconds.

“Right, well, uh – see you Sunday,” Enjolras finally said, breaking the silence.

Grantaire nodded jerkily, and when Enjolras walked away, he finally breathed out again and sighed. He was hopeless, absolutely hopeless. He headed home, dressed for a night out, and met Joly and Bossuet at the club. Even though it never had before, maybe this time, the alcohol and the noise and the crowds, and hopefully, sex in the toilets with a stranger, would fill what was missing. He’d keep trying until it killed him, anyways. He never had known what was good for him.


End file.
